


An Unexpected Proposal

by airebellah



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Flirting, Courtship, Cultural Differences, Developing Relationship, Dwarf Courting, Fluff and Humor, Hobbit Courting, M/M, Miscommunication, Oblivious Thorin, Poor Bilbo, Quest of Erebor, Thorin is a Softie, gandalf is shipper trash and secretly sets up bilbo and thorin, meddling gandalf - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 04:05:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13158918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airebellah/pseuds/airebellah
Summary: “I made a promise to your mother, before she passed.”"And?” Bilbo prompted.“I promised your mother I would find you a husband.”“W-what?” Bilbo spluttered, pushing his tea aside as he leapt from his armchair. “I - how could you - who would I even -”“Why, Thorin Oakenshield, of course,” Gandalf answered with a far too smug smile.





	An Unexpected Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again!!  
> I slipped out of the fandom for quite a few months, so my sincerest apologies to anyone waiting on All the War Left Behind *gulps* (don’t worry, you can’t hate yourself more than I hate myself)  
> So hi to anyone who has read my works before, fandom veterans, and any newbies!! I’m quite sure I got this idea from tumblr, but if so I’ve long since lost the link to the OP.  
> Thank you to my beta [mithrildreams](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mithrildreams/pseuds/mithrildreams) who has a very cute mod!AU :)  
> The Road Goes Ever On comes from The Hobbit, and The Song of Durin from Lord of the Rings. Both (along with the characters) completely belong to Tolkien.  
> Fair warning, it doesn't exactly follow the pace of the movies. But without further ado…

“You should know, my lad, that this is not merely about a quest to slay a dragon.”

Bilbo could not stop a shudder at mention of such a creature, yet continued to stare determinedly into his cup of chamomile tea. He was holding out for the somewhat hysterical hope that if he ignored Gandalf enough, the wizard would simply give up and disappear. 

“I made a promise to your mother, before she passed.”

The mention of Belladonna had Bilbo’s head jerking up. Any promise that his mother could have extracted from a wizard - well, it just couldn’t be good.

“And?” he prompted, tiring of Gandalf’s dramatic pauses.

“I promised your mother I would find you a husband.”

“W- _ what?”  _ Bilbo spluttered, pushing his tea aside as he leapt from his armchair. “I - how could you - who would I even -”

“Why, Thorin Oakenshield, of course,” Gandalf answered with a far too smug smile.

_ “Thorin Oaken-”  _ Bilbo cut himself off, glancing out the open doorway lest he be overhead. He continued with a hissed whisper, “You mean the one who called me a  _ grocer  _ earlier?”

Gandalf shrugged a grey-cloaked shoulder as he pulled out his pipe. “Some may focus on the fact that I am proposing you marry a  _ king, _ but yes, there is that as well.”

“I don’t care two figs if he’s a king! He’s a complete and utter arse and -”

“And I happen to know he finds you very attractive,” Gandalf interjected.

Bilbo laughed drily, completely ignoring how the thought already made his toes want to curl into his plush rug. “It doesn’t  _ matter _ what he thinks,” Bilbo replied with forced composure. “Because I’m not doing it!”

 

He was doing it.

He was going to marry a dwarf king.

Well, it wasn’t all decided yet, exactly. Somehow Gandalf had convinced him, not only to become this doomed company’s fourteenth member  _ (burglar, _ no less), but to see if he and Thorin would be a good match.

_ That’s all I’m asking, _ Gandalf had said with a smirk that said so much more.  _ You are already coming along on the quest. There is no harm in trying! It would make your mother so happy. _

Bilbo sighed, not for the first time, at Thorin’s back as it swayed back and forth. The king and his pony were at the front of the group, fifty metres from Bilbo, who was at the very back. Alongside Gandalf, whom the hobbit was thus far unable to shake off. Blast it all.

“For someone who supposedly finds me attractive,” Bilbo whispered to his excessively tall companion, “And is considering marrying me, he’s doing a bloody fantastic job of pretending I don’t exist!”

“You must remember that you are not among hobbits, my dear lad,” Gandalf replied. Because he  _ always _ had a bloody reply. “Dwarves approach courtships much differently.”

“Oh?” Bilbo found himself intrigued, as much as he hated to admit it.

“Have you even tried making yourself known to him?” the wizard pressed.

“Well, I - every time he seems to remember I exist, he just  _ glares _ at me.”

Gandalf chuckled. “Thorin is very complex. You need to dig a little deeper, show him you are worthy of his affections.”

Bilbo was positively affronted. “And why shouldn’t  _ he _ prove he’s worthy of  _ me?” _ he huffed. “I’ll have you know I am one of the wealthiest, most sought-after bachelors of the West Farthing!”

Gandalf rubbed a hand over his mouth, coughing as he muttered, “Perhaps a decade ago…”

Jaw dropping, Bilbo turned to his mother’s supposed  _ friend _ in shock. “What was that!?” he gasped.

Brows raising in confusion, Gandalf looked around. “Sorry, my dear hobbit, what was what? Did you hear something?”

Bilbo sent him a glare that said he was not buying any of Gandalf’s utter  _ twaddle. _

Sighing, the wizard offered, “Bilbo, perhaps Thorin does not care for those things. Dwarves have different values.”

“Well, first of all,” Bilbo retorted, lifting a finger. ‘What if I don’t care about his values? And second of all, what about  _ my  _ values?”

“If you show him you appreciate his culture,” Gandalf countered. “He will do the same.”

“Why am I the one that must initiate this?” Bilbo grumbled, arms crossing over his chest for all of five seconds before he was scrambling with the reins. “Why don’t I see you up there, hassling Thorin to pick a bouquet of flowers or cook me a meal?”

“Well, that is…” Gandalf cleared this throat. “Ahem, you see, with dwarves…” He continued to mumble some more before kicking his horse’s side and riding off.

Bilbo’s hands clenched his reins tightly.  _ “Wizards!”  _ he griped.

 

Quickly running out of patience with Gandalf’s plots, Bilbo made an effort to socialize with his companions. They were not as bad as their first impressions at Bag End would suggest, though they often favoured jokes that were much too raunchy for Bilbo’s respectable taste.

Even if he had cracked a smile at a few.

He found he got along most with Balin, who was too sophisticated to join in with the others’ antics (most of the time); Ori, who was a tad young but sweet and enjoyed writing as well; Bombur, with whom he shared a love of food and cooking; and Bofur, surprisingly, who was incredibly friendly and easygoing. Bofur claimed their cousin, Bifur, also enjoyed Bilbo’s company. It was hard to say with that one, though his lack of glaring seemed a good sign. It was more than he could say for some of the others, at least.

The king was reticent and distant with most of the company, so it was not as if Bilbo could take that part of it so personally. He often sat removed from everyone else, though his exclusion from the dwarves’ merry-making seemed to do more with his need to brood alone than a greater maturity. Bilbo tried to console himself with this knowledge, but he could give no excuse for the glares often sent his way. Thorin certainly did not glare at any other member of the Company, save for Gandalf (who surely deserved it, that sneaky meddler!), and Thorin’s nephews, Fili and Kili, when they caused trouble (they also deserved it). But Bilbo did not meddle in Thorin’s affairs, nor did he cause trouble, other than by  _ breathing  _ and being  _ present _ \- and his presence had been  _ asked for, _ need he remind anyone!

But much to Bilbo’s surprise, as he grew closer to the Company, he found he was getting - well, not closer to the king, but something like it. Thorin seemed to scowl at him less often, and less intensely. It was a step in the right direction, at least.

In fact, as the weeks passed, Bilbo became determined to get to know Thorin better. Gandalf was right, loath as Bilbo was to admit it: there was no harm in giving it a try. There had been plenty of lads and lasses over the years - including past his fortieth, despite what any wizards may say - who had sought Bilbo’s affections. While he had eventually turned them each down (and his pride could admit, a few had turned  _ him _ down), they still remained friends. When Bilbo felt like socializing, that is. Besides, Thorin and he couldn’t get on any worse terms than they were now. Could they?

 

Bilbo still had trouble controlling his pony, Myrtle, much to the dwarves’ amusement. While she generally followed everyone else without Bilbo’s need to intervene, she also took after her current master and often lagged behind or even pulled off the path altogether to fill her belly with grass. So it was rather a struggle to align himself alongside Balin, but when he finally did, Bilbo was puffing with pride.

“I see ye’re gettin’ better control, laddie,” the older dwarf commented with a smile.

“Why, yes, I think I’m rather getting the hang of it! You’re not so bad after all, are you, Myrtle?” he asked, stroking the pony’s mane.

Myrtle snorted loudly, head tossing back and forth until Bilbo removed his hand.

“Er, is that… normal?” he whispered to Balin.

The dwarf chuckled, dismissing Bilbo’s concern with a wave of his gloved hand. “Not to worry, I’m sure she’s fond of ye.”

_ Speaking of fond… _ Bilbo sucked in a deep breath, back straightening as he summoned some courage. “I always see Thorin riding alone,” he began cautiously. He wasn’t sure if the rest of the dwarves knew of their, ah, tentative  _ arrangement. _ No one had mentioned it, at least - certainly not the king himself.

Balin merely raised an inquisitive brow, apparently deciding to mirror Gandalf’s levels of unhelpfulness.

“Does he not prefer some companionship?”

“Aye!” came a rough brogue from behind as Dwalin suddenly appeared on Bilbo’s right. “He’d prefer some companionship alright, hobbit.”

Balin said something in Khuzdul as Bilbo went bright red. “N-no, I didn’t mean - I only meant -”

“Ignore him, Master Baggins,” Balin intervened with a sigh. “My brother has many skills, but tact is not one.”

“Oi!” Dwalin protested, but he ended up grumbling under his breath and falling back as Balin pinned him with a glare.

“I’m sure Thorin would appreciate your company, Master Baggins,” he said once they were alone again.

He did not give Bilbo a chance to even reply before he smacked Myrtle’s rump. As the pony went flying down the path, Bilbo yelped, hands squeezing the reins as he tried not to fall off. Balin must have been in cahoots with Myrtle, for she settled right next to Thorin's pony without any guidance from Bilbo, who was a bit busy trying to come to terms with his own mortality.

“Whoa,” Thorin murmured, reaching out to stroke Myrtle’s mane. “Easy, girl.” The dwarf’s gaze turned to Bilbo, who must have looked incredibly charming as he panted for breath. “I thought you would have learned to ride by now.”

“And I thought -”  _ You would have stopped being such an arse by now,  _ Bilbo barely refrained from snarking. Clearing his throat, he instead said, “I thought we'd get to know each other, if you’re not opposed.”

“I am not,” Thorin replied with a very regal dip of his head.

The two promptly fell into silence.

“Um…” Bilbo began awkwardly. “Well, what are your hobbies?”

“Hobbies?” the dwarf echoed, giving Bilbo a sidelong glance. Bilbo wondered if it was meant to come off so menacing, or if perhaps Thorin merely lacked a full range of facial expressions.

“Things you do for fun in your free time,” he explained.

This time Thorin managed to turn his head, but only to pin Bilbo with a blank stare.

“What?” the hobbit prompted.

“I am not familiar with such a thing,” the king muttered as he turned to face the road once more.

“Oh. Right,” Bilbo mumbled.  _ Idiot!  _ “I suppose being a king is a busy job.”

“Busy indeed,” Thorin muttered with more acidity than the hobbit felt was truly necessary. “Especially so when your people have no home.”

Alright, Bilbo could admit that was called for.

“Of course,” he said softly, unsure if he should perhaps apologize for his insensitivity. Finding himself unable to do so, he instead changed topics. “What about your music? You play the harp beautifully.”

Thorin’s chin dipped. “My thanks.”

“I've actually been hoping you might play again,” Bilbo confessed with a small smile. “Even sing, perhaps. It was a pleasure listening to you in Bag End.”

“I do not recall you being in the room,” Thorin stated in his rather annoying way of avoiding merely _asking_ Bilbo how he had heard. Was it impossible for royalty to admit when they did not know something?

“No, I was down the hall,” Bilbo answered nevertheless. “Trying to extract information from Gandalf as to why my home was filled with dwarves, I'm afraid. But I overheard. Your voice filled my dreams!” Bilbo blurted out that last part entirely involuntarily. Starting to blush, he stuttered, “I mean - that is to say…”

Bilbo could not be sure if he was merely indulging himself, but he thought he could see a hint of a smile under Thorin’s beard. “I am glad you enjoyed some part of that night.”

“It wasn’t as bad as I made it out,” Bilbo confessed. “Besides, it’s all Gandalf’s fault.”

“You can never go wrong with blaming a wizard,” Thorin replied seriously.

Bilbo chuckled. “I wish I had known that as a faunt,” he said. “I would have gotten myself out of all sorts of trouble!”

Much to Bilbo’s disappointment, his poor attempt at a joke was met with nothing. But hope was not lost after all, as Thorin -  _ Thorin!  _ \- reignited the conversation, entirely of his own volition, after a prolonged silence.

“And what is your craft, Master Baggins?” the dwarf inquired. “Your hobby, as you put it.”

Bilbo grinned proudly. “I write stories and poems, and compose music!” he declared.

“A respectable craft,” Thorin said, sending Bilbo an approving nod.

“Oh, thank you,” he murmured, feeling oddly warmed by the sentiment. “Though perhaps craft is too strong a word. It’s for my own pleasure, really.”

“Do you not share your work with your people?”

“Sometimes,” Bilbo said, trying not to think of how few occasions there would have been to do so in recent years. “They’re mostly interested in the sillier songs, good for drinking at the pub or dancing to at a party.”

Thorin appeared to consider this a moment. “May we hope to hear some of your work?” he asked. “Perhaps something not intended for dancing.”

Bilbo smiled teasingly. “You aren’t willing to dance for me, Your Majesty?”

The dwarf stiffened, head turning away as he coughed into his hand.

Bilbo frowned at the strange reaction - had he said something wrong? The king’s sudden coughing fit had left his cheeks tinged the slightest pink, a sight which Bilbo couldn’t help but admire. “Perhaps you could even lend me your voice,” he offered once Thorin recovered. 

 

Bolstered by their previously successful conversation, Bilbo approached Thorin again almost a fortnight later. There had been an endless fall of deluge upon them, and he had not been in any sort of mood for the foolishness of courting at fifty years of age. But as the rain had passed, so had Bilbo’s miserable temper, and he decided to try again.

“Which side of the bed do you prefer to sleep on?” he asked.

He could admit, in hindsight, that it was a completely bizarre and rather loaded question. He was quite deserving of the startled look Thorin sent him. It was certainly the most expressive Bilbo had seen the dwarf with his eyes wide, brows raised, and mouth slightly agape.

“Master Baggins,” he began slowly. “I do not know how it is done in the Shire, but amongst dwarves, one does not merely proposition -”

“Proposition?” Bilbo gasped. “How dare you accuse me of anything so improper! I’ll admit it was a rather silly question, but I only wished to get to know you better!”

By Yavanna’s green garden! He was sorely tempted to call the whole thing off - the nerve! He was a respectable hobbit, and would never dare to break the propriety of a courtship!

“Even my preferences in -” the dwarf quickly cut himself off. “My  _ sleeping _ habits?” he tried again.

“Yes,” Bilbo harrumphed. “Alright, fine. You don’t need to tell me. All I will say is I prefer the left side, and that is non-negotiable. Of course, that doesn’t matter now; my bedroll is not even large enough to  _ prefer _ a side!”

“Your preferences are your own,” Thorin muttered tersely, brows pulling into a heavy frown as he glared at the path ahead. “There will be no beds on this quest. If you have still not yet accepted this, perhaps you should return to the home for which you so often pine.”

It was Bilbo’s jaw dropping, this time, as Thorin nudged his pony faster along the path.

 

Much to Gandalf’s apparent disappointment, Thorin and Bilbo did not interact after that. Unless glaring (and huffing in response to said glares) counted. Bilbo was rather relieved the night Bofur asked him to take Fili and Kili some soup… that is, until the trolls showed up.

But in a strange way, the incident may have been for the better. For as the rest of the Company made their way to the trolls’ hoard, Thorin approached him. 

“Are you hurt?” the dwarf asked.

Bilbo - not quite prepared for the king to see him in such a state, curls drying in matts and the velvet of his jacket crunchy from  _ snot _ \- managed only a befuddled, “Hmm?”

Thorin’s large arms crossed over his chest as he gazed at Bilbo appraisingly. “Trolls are not known for their gentleness,” he explained. “And you are quite small.”

“I’m not small!” he squawked, all embarrassment fleeing. “And I may be bruised for a few days, but I’m none the worse for wear.”

“Come, then,” Thorin ordered as he began walking away. “Lest your lose your way.”

Bilbo snorted, marching forward to give the dwarf a smirk. “Are you sure you’re not afraid of getting lost yourself, Your Majesty?” he teased. “There is a sign on every road in the Shire, yet you managed to lose your way  _ twice.” _

Thorin huffed and walked determinedly faster.

It had been a small moment, of course, but it seemed a step in the right direction.

Thorin and he continued to not talk for a while. Bilbo was a proud hobbit, after all; for all Gandalf claimed he should be working to impress the king, Bilbo would not be satisfied until  _ Thorin _ made the next move. He felt somewhat bolstered, for whenever he caught Thorin staring at him, if he sent the dwarf a smile, Thorin would nod back before looking away.

Fortunately, Thorin did end up being the first to make an approach. Unfortunately, it was hardly romantic. And he decided to come during  _ dinner, _ of all times.

“Get on your pony,” Thorin demanded as he towered over Bilbo.

“Excuse me?” Bilbo asked, wincing as he swallowed down a mouthful of hot soup.

“It is time you learned to ride properly,” the dwarf explained.

Bilbo looked very pointedly at his dinner. “Can’t I eat first?”

Thorin frowned at the food, as though just noticing it for the first time. His arms crossed over his chest as he nodded.

Bilbo took another bite, swallowed… and looked back up at Thorin, who remained standing before him. “Are you just going to wait like that?” he asked.

“I know your hobbit appetite,” Thorin deadpanned. “This will not take long.”

“That’s not the point!” Bilbo exclaimed. “Nor is it true!” Ignoring Thorin’s disbelieving snort, he patted the ground next to him. “Just sit a moment, will you?”

Despite his best efforts to prove the dwarf wrong by slowing down, Bilbo’s appetite was a force to be reckoned with. He was done within minutes. But as they both stood, Thorin was kind enough to not say anything.

While Bilbo was less than thrilled to spend the evening riding Myrtle, he could admit he needed the help. And Thorin was a surprisingly patient teacher, correcting Bilbo’s posture, his grip on the reins, and the way he sat in the saddle.

Bilbo wouldn’t have called it a particularly romantic evening, by hobbit standards. But as he tucked himself in that night, he reminded himself: he could not compare anything Thorin did to hobbit standards. At least not yet. By dwarf standards, he could easily imagine it being an overture. Thorin did not have much spare time, after all; he usually spent his nights poring over a map, sharpening his sword, or arguing with Gandalf. He could have easily delegated the duty to another dwarf - in fact, that would have made perfect sense. 

The next morning, Bilbo rode Myrtle rather proficiently alongside Thorin.

“You are much improved, Master Baggins,” Thorin noted.

He thought it may have been his body finally acclimated to nights on the hard, forest floor, but Bilbo felt more refreshed than he had the entire journey. He shot Thorin a pleased smile, but did not push conversation between them further.

 

It was to Bilbo’s utter surprise one night that Thorin pulled him aside. The dwarf all but dragged him to the privacy of the trees before turning around, arms crossed and expression serious.

“I accept your invitation,” he declared.

“What?” Bilbo asked.

The dwarf cleared his throat (as though he expected Bilbo to remember a conversation weeks ago) before explaining _ :  _ “I will sing one of your songs.”

“Oh!” Bilbo clapped his hands together, unable to stop himself from bouncing on the balls of his feet. Just a little. “How wonderful! I recently started composing a song…” Bilbo wrung his hands together nervously. “Oh, but it doesn’t have an ending yet, I’m afraid.”

“I would be glad to hear what our journey has inspired in you,” replied Thorin.

“Alright!” Bilbo agreed. “I would love to hear you play the harp as well, if you wouldn’t mind.”

With a nod, Thorin strode off to retrieve his instrument as Bilbo dashed off for his journal. He was excited by the prospect of Thorin’s appraisal. The two soon found a fallen log to sit on, still removed from the others. Bilbo strummed through the pages of a journal he had brought along, filled with half-written stories, poems, and recollections as Thorin tuned the strings on his shimmering gold harp. “Aha!” the hobbit cried as he found the one in mind, motioning Thorin closer.

As the dwarf leaned over, his long, silver-streaked hair pooled over his shoulder. With a small grumble he pushed it over his shoulder, and Bilbo quite forgot all about the song as he watched the long, wavy locks. No one had such beautiful hair in the Shire, he thought.

“And what tune do you imagine?” asked Thorin.

Bilbo cleared his throat before humming, a soft, joyful melody. Thorin listened intently, hands poised over his harp. He soon joined in, thick fingers plucking at the strings with surprising deftness. He played softly, so the music did not carry to the others. The sudden addition of his own hum, deep and rumbling yet barely above a whisper, sent a shiver down Bilbo’s spine.

The ballad, unfinished as it was, ended rather soon. Grinning, Bilbo knocked his shoulder into Thorin’s. “That was amazing!” he praised proudly. “Will you play for the others?”

“That was the agreement,” acknowledged Thorin.

As they made their way to the dwarves gathered around the fire, Gloin glanced up, eyes landing on Thorin’s harp. “What’s this, then?” he asked.

“I requested Thorin lend me his voice and harp for a song I’ve been composing,” Bilbo explained. “Along the quest.”

_ Roads go ever ever on, _

_ Over rock and under tree, _

_ By caves where never sun has shone, _

_ By streams that never find the sea; _

_ Over snow by winter sown, _

_ And through the merry flowers of June, _

_ Over grass and over stone, _

_ And under mountains in the moon. _

It was the first finished stanza, and so after finishing Bilbo gave a mock bow to his companions’ applause. He settled on a log near the fire, flushing pleasantly at Bofur’s appreciative cheer and Balin’s hearty backslap.

Thorin, however, did not join them; instead, his fingers continued to pluck at the gold-strung harp, slowing to a solemn tune. The dwarves, recognizing the song, joined in with deep humming. Bilbo almost leant out of his seat, eagerly awaiting another glance into dwarven tradition. When Thorin’s voice finally emerged, he sang with beautiful reverence:

_ The world was young, the mountains green, _

_ No stains yet on the Moon was seen, _

_ No words were laid on stream or stone _

_ When Durin woke and walked alone. _

 

After a somewhat lacking meal offered by the elves, the company decided to make a second dinner for themselves. It was finally something these dwarves did that Bilbo could get behind, though he certainly did not condone breaking their hosts’ furniture to build a fire.

As they began unpacking their food supplies, Thorin stood and brushed past the hobbit. “Walk with me,” he said before starting down the marble stairs toward a courtyard.

Bilbo looked up, expecting Balin or Dwalin to get up and join their king. Instead Balin pinned Bilbo with an expecting smile. “Well?” he prompted genially.

“Me?” Bilbo stammered, pointing at himself in confusion.

“Ye don’t want to keep him waitin’ now, do ye, Bilbo?” Bofur chimed in with a much too joyful grin, causing a few snickers around the camp.

Speculation on what exactly the dwarf could want from him soon fell away to silent appreciation of Rivendell’s landscape as they walked. The green gardens seemed to glow even in the moonlight, as the branches of trees taller and grander than Bilbo had ever seen swayed gently in the breeze. He vowed to spend some quality alone time tomorrow basking in the sun, lying amongst sweet-smelling flowers, and digging his toes into the soil.

But for now, he was more than content to rest beside Thorin on a stone bench the dwarf chose in a semi-private courtyard. Though Bilbo normally did not enjoy prolonged silences between them, as it usually seemed to stem from Thorin’s chronic disinterest, tonight it felt peaceful.

“Do you know much of Dwarven history, Master Hobbit?” Thorin’s eventual words were slow and careless, as he pulled out his pipe and a small bag of pipeweed.

“No,” Bilbo replied, huffing somewhat, for what else did Thorin expect him to say? “At least, nothing directly from a dwarf.”

Thorin’s hands stilled, pinched fingers filled with tobacco hovering above the awaiting bowl. “I will not speak of what the other races have to say about my people, save to say it is slanderous and false.”

Bilbo smiled lightly, nudging Thorin’s shoulder to lighten the mood as he said, “I’m sure I could say the same for hobbits! We are not all lazy and inbred.”

Bilbo hardly expected the king to crack a smile, but was relieved when Thorin continued speaking as he filled his pipe. “It is a saying amongst my kin… a joke, if you will,” he explained rather sagely. “That all the luck of my line was expended on my ancestor, Durin I, one of the Seven Fathers of my people. He lived for many generations , and was so named ‘Deathless.’

“My mother felt this zazin amsâl, bad luck, when I was born. She was heavily pregnant, and as most dwarrowdams experience great difficulty in labour, my father forbade her from venturing into the mines.” Here Thorin broke off, blowing out a puff of smoke with suspicious gaiety. His lips pulled into a slight smile before passing Bilbo the pipe.

“O-Oh,” Bilbo mumbled as he grasped the warmed, finely carved stone. He had fully intended to light his own, but could not find it in himself to refuse the offer.

“My mother was stubborn -” Bilbo’s muttered, “No wonder,” was firmly ignored - “And refused to listen. When she heard a new vein of tanzanite was discovered in the mines, she could not be dissuaded. She travelled in disguise, deep into the mountain. There was a cave-in and she was trapped. No one was hurt, but it took many hours to uncover, and of course no one knew the Princess was in there. My mother found passage to a more stable cave, and ended up giving birth alone.”

“Oh, dear,” was all Bilbo could say, shaking his head empathetically as he handed the pipe back. Though he knew Thorin’s sister was younger, so surely everything went well.

“It would have been pitch black, but the top was covered in these irzêd urmarûm... I do not know the Common word. Glowing worms.”

“Like fireflies?” Bilbo offered. “They glow in darkness.”

Thorin nodded, handing Bilbo the pipe once more. “Aye. She said she did not feel fear, for Mahal guided her. She named me after our ancestor Thorin I, for it means to dare.”

“A fitting name indeed,” Bilbo agreed. “I must say, our mothers would have gotten along very well, from the sounds of it.”

Before Bilbo could think of something to rival a dangerous birthing story, his ear twitched at hushed voices drifting from down below. Pushing up from the bench, he quietly saunted to the balcony, rolling his eyes at Thorin’s utter lack of subtly as the dwarf’s heavy boots thumped against the floor. He spotted Gandalf and Lord Elrond; as their voices became clearer, the exasperated smile fell from Bilbo’s face. Elrond’s condemnation of the quest quickly turned into a reminder of Thorin’s ill-fated grandfather, and a premonition of Thorin’s own doomed fate.

Bilbo turned, fully expecting a haughty, heated retort from the king about the foolishness of conceited elves and senile wizards. Instead, the dwarf seemed… lost. Thorin half-turned away from him, face obscured by long, tangled waves. As Bilbo stepped closer, he saw Thorin’s wide, troubled gaze harden into fierce resolve.

“I cannot fall to my grandfather’s madness,” he vowed. “I  _ will _ not.”

“Then you needn’t listen to them,” Bilbo said simply, hand brushing against the dwarf’s elbow.

Despite his own words, Thorin scoffed mockingly. “You think yourself wiser than an elf-lord and wizard?”

“Perhaps not,” Bilbo conceded. “But our inheritance doesn’t mean everything. Goodness, my mother was a Took and my father a Baggins! But they did not let it stop them.”

“That…” Thorin paused, brows pulling into a sharp frown. “Does not mean anything to me.”

Bilbo sighed as he rested his hands on his hips. “The Baggins and Tooks are both very prominent clans in the Shire,” he explained. “They’ve loathed each other for generations. Yet my mother and father overcame their differences and fell in love.”

“This is not some fairy tale in which love conquers all and whatever else nonsense your parents fed you as a babe.”

Bilbo poked the broody dwarf in the side, earning himself a scowl that once would have turned his stomach. “You wouldn’t be so dismissive if you saw our family gatherings! My great-aunt Petunia gives a mean whooping with her umbrella!”

The harsh lines of Thorin’s grim expression softened slightly as he snorted. Bilbo let himself beam in victory briefly before growing more solemn. “Thorin, listen.” He grasped Thorin’s wrist, gently, barely grasping the hard fabric of his vambrace. Even so, the dwarf’s skin seem to radiate heat through the leather. “What I mean to say is… I believe in you. Maybe the faith of a hobbit is not much to a king, but you have it nonetheless.”

“Bilbo.” It was the first time Thorin had said his name, and it was not so much spoken as it was exhaled. Reverent. “Astu ‘urzamu. Your faith honours me.”

When Thorin embraced him upon the Carrock, Bilbo’s Baggins side immediately reared up and shoved the dwarf away as he admonished, “That’s hardly proper!” Or at least attempted to, as his pushing did not budge that hard, warm body even an inch. In fact Thorin, that thrice-damned, smirking king, only held him tighter.

“For once, Master Baggins,” he whispered, nose brushing against Bilbo’s hair. “I would ask you to put aside your hobbitish respectability.”

And, well, it wouldn't be at all respectable to deny a small favour from a king, would it?

It was not until that night, when Thorin’s too-close brush with death truly hit him, that Bilbo decided this courtship was not merely some silly idea to teasingly entertain before returning to the Shire.

He was quite sure he was falling for Thorin Oakenshield, and that the dwarf king may feel the same way toward him.

And that realization was, inevitably, followed by riddling self-doubt and double-guessing. Never in his fifty years had Bilbo felt the desire to court another, and he had never heard of the proposal traditions of dwarves. To add a splash of oil to Bilbo’s burning conundrum, Thorin was royalty - did regular rules even apply? Must it be Thorin who asks for Bilbo’s hand in marriage? Bilbo had never cared about Thorin’s royal status before - why should he worry now?

So consumed, he failed to notice a long shadow cast upon his form. “My boy!” Gandalf announced, startling Bilbo from his fretting. “Why don’t you simply ask him?”

Bilbo’s mouth fell agape as he jumped from his spot and glanced around in a panic. “Was I - did I say that  _ out loud?”  _ he exclaimed.

“No, no!” Gandalf huffed with laughter, placing a large, wrinkled hand on Bilbo’s trembling shoulder. “But it is easy to imagine your thoughts. You’ve been staring at our esteemed leader with quite a longing gaze.”

Bilbo immediately flushed, but could not bring himself to deny it. “I-I don’t know if I can,” he admitted sadly.

“Bilbo Baggins, I watched you throw yourself, unlearned in combat, onto an orc to save Thorin’s life!” Gandalf admonished. “But if you doubt yourself still, why don’t you ask him about dwarven proposals? I’m sure he won’t deny you; he rather enjoys the sound of his own voice, after all.”

Bilbo snorted, elbowing his too-tall companion. “Perish the thought of whatever meddling nonsense you’ve been whispering into his ear, as well!”

 

One night at Beorn’s, as the company passed around dangerously large tankards of honeyed mead, Thorin silently slipped out. With an encouraging, deep breath and a straightening tug on his jacket, Bilbo followed. He found the dwarf on the front porch, pipe in one hand and tobacco patch in the other.

“May I join you?” Bilbo called.

In all honesty, it did wonders for Bilbo’s confidence to see the dwarf jump in surprise as the pipe fell from his hand. “Mi targê!” Thorin growled before turning to pin the hobbit with a glare.

Bilbo bit back a grin as he exclaimed, “Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you!”

“Speak not of it, Master Baggins,” Thorin muttered as he leaned down. “Do you not wish to join our companions in their drinking?”

“Actually, I, um…” Bilbo trailed off, finding his humour suddenly evaporating.  _ No backing down now! _ he berated himself silently. “I wished to speak to you, actually.” Clasping his hands tightly, he straightened his back. Even if he didn’t feel confident, well, he’d be damned if he didn’t at least look it!

“Oh?” Thorin’s eyebrows raised expectantly as he stared into the dark field before them.

“Yes. Yes, you see, because - well -”  _ How in Eru’s name can you call yourself a writer?  _ he taunted himself. “Well. Alright. How do you, I mean how does one… one  _ dwarf,  _ that is… ah, propose to another?”

“Do you mean how a dwarf may declare their intentions of marriage to another?” Thorin asked.

“Yes,” Bilbo clarified, his voice barely more than a squeak. 

Thorin was silent a long moment. He might have turned to stone, save for his hand intermittently bringing the pipe to his lips, and the smoky rings he blew into the air. Bilbo’s fingers twitched for his own pipe, quite desperately, as his stomach twisted into knots.

“I see,” the dwarf finally said.

_ Oh please, please, please  _ don’t _ see - _

“In that case,” he began, words terribly slow and carefully chosen. “You would present one with a bead, preferably made by your own hand. If they accepted, you may braid it into their hair.”

“That’s… actually quite simple, are you sure you’re telling me a  _ dwarven _ tradition, Your Majesty?” Bilbo asked teasingly.

Scoffing, Thorin countered, “We dwarves are much more practical than hobbits, I can assure you.” He paused, seeming lost in thought as he leaned against the wooden rail, raven brows drawing over his bright eyes, a hand rubbing over his cropped beard. “Well?” he asked at last. His voice was gruff and commanding, as though Bilbo were purposefully withholding something. Stubbornly he stared forward, even when Bilbo cocked his head and cast him a quizzical look. “What does a hobbit proposal consist of, then? Stuffing one’s intended with food?”

Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh. As he brushed his shoulder against Thorin’s arm, he noticed the dwarf was terribly stiff. “That would actually be rather nice,” he said. “And likely help sway things in your favour. But no, we would pick flowers - our intended’s favourite, and some others with personal meaning - and braid them into a crown, which we present to our beloved.”

Thorin turned, stepping closer, his formidable, fur-cloaked form towering over the hobbit. He learned down, smoke-laced breath warming Bilbo’s reddening nose. “And what, Master Burglar, is your favourite flower?”

Bilbo gulped, heart walloping against his ribs as he stared at Thorin’s clear blue eyes, down his long bruised nose, and at his slowly curving lips. “Hydrangeas.”

 

Bilbo nervously fingered the small, cool object in his pocket as he stared at Thorin’s back. The dwarf stood at the window, staring at the Lonely Mountain in the distance.   
As he had been since Bilbo returned from Laketown’s marketplace.

His pride would have been wounded, if he did not remind himself that Thorin had not been home longer than Bilbo had been  _ alive. _ But the dwarf did turn, at last, eyes casting around the room before settling on the hobbit’s small form.

“Master Baggins,” he greeted. “How fares your sickness?”

“Fine, just fine!” Bilbo waved his hand hurriedly. “Could we talk? In private?”

He did not wait for an answer before scurrying down the hall to one of the private rooms given to them by the Master. Thorin followed at a much more sedate pace, and as Bilbo slammed the door behind them, pinned the hobbit with a bemused look.

“I know this is hardly an appropriate place,” Bilbo began, deciding to just dive right in, apropos  of nothing. “And you’ve got a lot on your mind, I don’t mean to add to that, but after seeing you locked in Thranduil’s dungeon, and almost drowning in that bloody river with even  _ more _ orcs after us, and considering a dragon is more than likely waiting for us -” He pulled his hand from his pocket, cramping fingers barely relaxing to reveal a small, undecorated, (and embarrassingly sweaty) wooden bead.

“I-I didn’t make it,” he confessed immediately, with a deflating sigh. “Myself, by hand or whatever. I just bought it from a wareseller in the marketplace. And it smells of -” Bilbo’s nose crinkled in disgust.  _ “Fish,  _ because everything in this bloody, unnatural town stinks of fish! But I hope, I hope that you, ah, may find it acceptable. Find, um…  _ me _ acceptable.”

Bilbo’s nose twitched as he stared at his palm, whatever miniscule bravery he had formed over these past months rapidly fleeing.

“You wish to marry me?”

The words were not scoffed haughtily, or, Eru forbid, spoken with lamenting pity. Instead, he sounded shockingly incredulous, and when Bilbo could finally force himself to look up, Thorin’s slack jaw and wide eyes agreed.

“Yes,” Bilbo said. “You see, I thought we’ve gotten quite close, after all, and that I’d do this - officially. Unless… do you not agree? When you asked about hobbit proposals, and my favourite flower, I assumed you felt the same. Bugger, I’ve made a fool of myself, haven’t I?” he asked as he withdrew his hand.

“No!” Thorin shouted, hand flying up to wrap firmly around Bilbo’s wrist. “You are not mistaken.” Holding Bilbo’s arm taut, he began to pry the hobbit’s tightening fingers loose once more around the bead. “Long have I wished to present you with a crown of flowers, as you say your people do. But none in the company could tell me how a hydrangea looks. I thought it a slight to present you with simply any flower.”

“Oh,” Bilbo sighed, skin tingling as Thorin began to stroke the bead, blunt nails dragging softly against Bilbo’s palm. “May I kiss you now?”

Thorin’s ministrations stilled, the dwarf’s soft expression vanishing into a scowl as his cheeks turned a bright red. “Wh-what?”

“Thorin Oakenshield!” Bilbo grinned up at his silly, adorable dwarf. “Did you just  _ stutter?” _

Thorin flushed even more, pulling from Bilbo’s hand to cross his arms. “You have not even braided my hair yet, you wanton creature! I am a  _ king,  _ need I remind you, I must follow strict - mmf!”

The king’s mighty speech was cut short by Bilbo grabbing the front of his overcoat, lifting onto the absolute tips of his toes, and pressing their lips together. He pulled away after a barely satisfying few seconds. “I’m sorry, I’ve just waited so many months, and -”

It was his turn to be cut off as Thorin threw his arms around the hobbit’s waist in a back-breaking embrace and covered Bilbo’s lips with his own.

 

**Two Years Later, somewhere in the royal chambers of Erebor…**

“What do you MEAN Gandalf didn’t tell you he arranged our courtship!?”

**Author's Note:**

> Tanzanite, the gemstone Thorin’s mother wanted to see, is extremely rare (according to google)  
> Irzêd = glowing, urmarûm = tiny worms  
> Astu - you, respectful. ‘Urzam = greatest belief, -u = of  
> Mi targê: by my beard  
> Thanks to the AMAZING resources from the Dwarrow Scholar for the khuzdul! <3
> 
> Thorin being born in a cave with glowing worms comes from an interview with the lovely Richard Armitage, which you can find [here](http://richardandlee.tumblr.com/post/68086565044/richard-armitage-on-bilbo-and-thorin-cut-out)


End file.
